A diary?

  It began in the middle of a sentence:

  silly pet names he’s invented for S., though he has the grace not to use them except when he thinks they’re alone. Why should it annoy me? At his age, though. Oh, be honest. You know why…But the damn silliness of it. Calling her “Lia” before they were married—Lia! ! ! ! ! ! just that way—in his own handwriting in that sappy gush note I f…—and then “Salomina” after the wedding. Where did he get them? ? ! ! So cute—the great D. Van H. So coy. Salomina—Sally—Sal—the stupid progression and what the hell was wrong with her real name in the first place? I like Sara. I lo—whoa, got to quit this, oughtn’t even to write it. It’s his right, hers. Quit it. Going to bed, hope to sleep.

  A diary, yes.

  One thing Howard had never mentioned.

  Lia. Salomina.

  Funny how those names stuck.

  Lia. Salomina. Where had Diedrich picked those up? A thought shuttled over and dropped suddenly into place and Ellery was back at Quetonokis Lake, sitting beside Sally in the convertible drawn up at the lake’s edge. She had turned around and tucked her legs under her, and excellent legs they had been. Howard was off at the mossy boulder kicking at a stone. Ellery had given her a cigaret.

  “My name was Sara Mason.”

  He could hear her voice and the swish of the birds rising from the log in the lake.

  “It’s Dieds who started calling me Sally, among other things.”

  Among other things. Lia, and Salomina?

  Calling her “Lia” before they were married…Before they were married. Not Sara Mason. “Lia Mason.” Maybe Diedrich didn’t like “Sara.” “Sara Mason” conjured up the wrong picture: a tight-lipped school teacher, perhaps; a New England housewife wearing a dust-cloth about her stingy hair and going around pulling down parlor blinds. “Lia Mason” was young and soft and even mysterious sounding. It suited Sally better. Also, it told something about Diedrich Van Horn. Something secret, and nice.

  Salomina after the wedding. Familiar sounding. No, not really. It’s the first two syllables that make it seem familiar. Daughter of Herodias…Ellery grinned. Then why not “Salome”? Why “Salomina”? The ending -ina was in itself a feminization. No, probably a pure invention of Diedrich’s, like “Lia.” Certainly musical. Sounded like an invention of Poe’s.

  He sat back and lit his pipe, puffing enjoyably and holding on to the reins of his reflections; to let go meant having to get back to rug-patrol and desperation.

  He picked up a pencil, began doodling on a scrap pad.

  Lia Mason?

  He wrote the name down. Yes, very nice.

  He wrote it again, this time in block capitals:

  LIA MASON

  O-ho, and what’s this? LIA MASON—A SILO MAN! He wrote down the phrase with the agricultural flavor, and now he had:

  LIA MASON

  A SILO MAN

  He studied the letters of the name for another minute, and then he wrote down:

  O ANIMALS

  An invocation? He chuckled. The next variation came quickly:

  NAIL AMOS

  And then:

  SIAM LOAN

  MAIL A SON

  ALAMO SIN

  MONA LISA

  SAL

  Mona Lisa.

  Mona Lisa?

  Mona Lisa!

  That was it. That was it. That smile. That wise, sad, enigmatic, haunting, contradictory smile! He’d wondered where he had met Sally before. Why, he’d never met her before at all. Sally had the Mona Lisa smile, as identically as if she, and not La Gioconda, had sat for the da Vinci portrait, and…

  And Diedrich had seen it?

  Undoubtedly Diedrich had seen it. Diedrich had been in love.

  Had Diedrich identified it? As such?

  Ellery’s eyes clouded over.

  He studied the scratch pad:

  MONA LISA

  SAL

  Almost automatically he finished the unfinished variant:

  SALOMINA

  Salomina.

  Lia Mason, Mona Lisa, Salomina.

  Lia Mason, Mona Lisa, Salomina.

  A pulse began to tick in his temple.

  A man is in love with a woman. She owns a provocative, familiar smile which he identifies as the smile of Mona Lisa. Her name is Mason. The man is passing his prime and the woman is young and she is his first and only love. His passion would be powerful, the appetite of a starved man. There would be, especially in the premarital state, a total absorption in the object of his hunger. The woman would be an obsession and everything about her would be magnified and sharpened to his eye. And the man is sensitive and discerning to begin with. The Mona Lisa discovery is delicious. He toys with it; it pleases him. He writes it down: Mona Lisa.

  And suddenly he notices that the five letters constituting his Sara Mason’s surname are duplicated in the name “Mona Lisa.” He is no longer merely pleased; this delights him. He steals the M, one A, the S, the O, the N from “Mona Lisa.” Three letters are left: L, I, A. Why, that’s practically a name in itself! It sounds like “Leah” and it looks worlds better. Lia…Lia Mason…Mona Lisa, Lia Mason.

  Secretly, he rebaptizes his love. Henceforth Sara is Lia in the closet of his thoughts.

  And then, one day, he opens the door to her. He says it. Aloud. “Lia.” Sheepishly. But she is a woman, and this is adoration. She likes it. They now share his secret. When they are alone together, he calls her that: “Lia.”

  They marry, go honeymooning.

  Now is the time of symbiosis, when organisms join and fuse and there is nothing outside the lovers’ conjunction: no friends, no business, no distraction or possibility of distraction. Each is absorbed in the other. A life is laid aside. A match is more important than a house, and a name can be the secret of the universe. She asks how he arrived at the name Lia, or, if he has told her previously, he brings it up again. He is gay, daring, inventive. “Lia Mason” will not serve now. She is no longer Mason. Another name must be found. Seize paper and pencil, Diedrich, and demonstrate your infinite resources, what a fine headstrong ingenious romantic young-old dog you are, Hotspur and D’Artagnan, and death to obstacles! Fee-faw-fum! Abracadabra! Presto! “Salomina.”

  And they had laughed together, and doubtless she had said “Salomina” was the loveliest name since “Eve” but wouldn’t it be a little awkward to explain? And he gravely agreed and they compromised, for social purposes, on “Sally,” which must have seemed to her at the time small price enough to pay in return for the love of this wonderful titan.

  Ellery sighed.

  Probably it happened altogether differently.

  As if any of this made any difference now.

  As if it wasn’t all a self-made conspiracy to abort the unborn book.

  Well…

  He got up from the desk and paced to his former position on the rug, preparatory to—

  Still, it was interesting to learn at this late date that poor Diedrich had had the type of mind which played around with anagrams. He recalled now having spotted a book of Double-Crostics on Diedrich’s desk one day in—

  Anagrams?

  Anagrams! Why, yes, that’s what they were. Funny it hadn’t struck him before in just that way that “Lia Mason,” and “Salomina,” being formed of the same letters of the alphabet as “Mona Lisa,” constituted an anagram.

  Because an anagram…

  Because an anagram…

  “By signing his sculpture H. H. Waye, Howard broke the Commandment: Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain; and this is an especially fascinating example…Here he dabbles in the cabala…occult theosophists…who believed that each letter, word, number, and accent of Scripture contains a hidden sense…And if you’ll take the letters which form the name H. H. Waye, you’ll find that they constitute an anagram for Yahweh.”

  H. H. Waye—Yahweh. Anagram. Point whatever-number-it-was, one of the ten nails in Howard’s coffin.

  Ellery became conscious of the ticking in his head. That same old maid of a pulse.

  What was all the excitement about? he asked his pulse irritably. So Diedrich played around with anagrams. Diedrich got an intellectual satisfaction out of anagrams. And so did Howard, unfortunately for him.

  Unfortunately…

  Ellery was really angry with himself.

  Is it possible for two men living in the same house to have the same bent toward anagrams?

  Possible hell. It was just as possible as for two men living in the same house to have the same bent toward bourbon. Anyway, it had happened. Anyway, Howard probably caught it from Diedrich. Anyway, what am I beating my brains out for?

  He was furious with himself.

  The case is over. The solution was impeccable. You damned fool, stop worrying over a case and a set of people dead and buried for a year and get back to work!

  But every idea the Queen brain produced turned out to revolve about an anagram.

  Ten minutes later Ellery was seated at his desk again, worrying his nails.

  But if Howard probably caught it from Diedrich, if Howard was an anagram man by association—if Howard was an anagram man at all—why had he written about the pet names “Lia” and “Salomina” the sentence: “Where did he get them??!!”

  The names had bothered Howard. He had worried over them. And yet he had remained ignorant of their derivation. Ellery was an anagram man, and he had worked out the derivation in five minutes.

  Oh, this is stupid!

  He tried authorship again. And he failed again.

  It was a few minutes after ten when he put in the long distance call to Connhaven.

  It’s just a call, he thought. Then I can get back to work.

  “Connhaven Detective Agency,” said a man’s voice. “Burmer speaking.”

  “Er, hello,” said Ellery. “My name is Ellery Queen, and I—”

  “Ellery Queen of New York?”

  “That’s right,” said Ellery. “Er, look, Burmer. Something’s been bothering me in connection with an old case and I’m doing a little checking just to satisfy myself that I’m an old lady in need of a rocker and a set of knitting needles.”

  “Well, sure, Ellery. Whatever I can do.” Burmer sounded companionable. “Case I was in on?”

  “Well, yes, in a way.”

  “What case was that?”

  “The Van Horn case. Wrightsville. A year ago.”

  “Van Horn case? Say, that was a dilly, wasn’t it? I wish I had been in on it. Then I’d have got a little of that newspaper space you grabbed off.” Burmer laughed, indicating this was man-to-man, inside stuff.

  “But you were in on it,” said Ellery. “Oh, not in any of the pay dirt, but you did some investigating for Diedrich Van Horn and—”

  “I did some investigating for who?”

  “For Diedrich Van Horn. Howard Van Horn’s father.”

  “I put the matter in the hands of a reputable agency in Connhaven.”

  “Killer’s old man? Ellery, who told you that?” Burmer sounded surprised.

  “He did.”

  “Who did?”

  “Killer’s old man. He said, ‘I put the matter in the hands of a reputable agency—’ ”

  “Well, it wasn’t mine. I never had anything to do with any of the Van Horns, worse luck. Maybe he meant in Boston.”

  “No, he said in Connhaven.”

  “One of us is drunk! What was I supposed to be investigating?”

  “Tracing back his foster son’s real parents. Howard’s, I mean.”

  “Just a few minutes ago I got a call from Connhaven. It was the head of the agency. They had the whole story…”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “You’re the head of your agency, aren’t you?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “Who was head of it last year?”

  “I was. It’s mine. Been in business up here fifteen years.”

  “Maybe it was an operative of yours—”

  “This is strictly a one-man operation, and I’m him.”

  Ellery was silent.

  Then he said: “Oh, of course. I’m not functioning this morning. What’s the name of the other detective agency in Connhaven?”

  “There is no other detective agency in Connhaven.”

  “I mean last year.”

  “I mean last year.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean there’s never been another detective agency in Connhaven.”

  Ellery was silent again.

  “What’s this all about, Ellery?” asked Burmer curiously. “Anything I can, uh…?”

  “You never spoke to Diedrich Van Horn?”

  “Nope.”

  “Never did any work for him?”

  “Nope.”

  Ellery was silent a third time.

  “You still there?” asked Burmer.

  “Yes. Burmer, tell me: Ever hear the name Waye? W-a-y-e? Aaron Waye? Mattie Waye? Buried in Fidelity Cemetery?”

  “Nope.”

  “Or a Dr. Southbridge?”

  “Southbridge? No.”

  “Thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  Ellery broke the connection. He waited a few seconds, and then he let go and dialed the number of La Guardia Airport.

  2

  IT WAS STILL EARLY in the afternoon when Ellery alighted from the plane at Wrightsville Airfield and hurried through the administration building to the taxi stand.

  His coat collar was up and he kept tugging at the brim of his hat.

  He crept into a cab.

  “Library. State Street.”

  Best to avoid the Wrightsville Record offices.

  Wrightsville was snoozing in the August sun. A few people drifted along under the elms on State Street. Two policemen were wiping their necks on the steps of the County Court House. One of them was Jeep.

  Ellery shivered.

  “Public library, Mister,” said the taxi driver.

  “Wait for me.”

  Ellery ran up the library steps, but in the vestibule he slowed down. He removed his hat and trudged past the stuffed eagle through the open doorway and into Miss Aikin’s domain, trying to look like a citizen seeking any port in the doldrums, only providing it was cool. And hoping that Miss Aikin wasn’t there. But she was—the same sharp-featured old Gorgon. She was fining a frightened-looking girl of about eleven six cents for a book overdue three days. Miss Aikin glanced up suspiciously as she opened her cash drawer; but the man in the topcoat was wiping his face with a handkerchief, and he kept wiping it until he was past her desk and in the transverse corridor beyond.

  Ellery stuffed the handkerchief in his pocket and leaped to the door marked Periodical Room.

  The periodical librarian’s desk was vacant. Only one person was in the Periodical Room, and that was a young lady snoring cheerfully over a file of old Saturday Evening Posts.

  Ellery tiptoed to the Wrightsville Record file. He lugged the heavy volume marked 1917 with exquisite care past the sleeping beauty to a lectern and opened it softly.

  “Bad summer thunderstorm…”

  Nevertheless, he began with the issues of April, in order to cover the spring, too.

  The accidental death of a local physician in a runaway en route from a confinement would surely have been front-page news in the leading Wrightsville newspaper in 1917. Still, Ellery glanced through all the pages. Fortunately, the Record had been a mere four-pager in those days.

  He also ran down the obituary column of each issue en passant.

  In the middle of December he gave up, restored the file to its place on the shelf, left the cheerful young lady snoring over her magazines, and sneaked out of the Wrightsville Public Library by way of a side door clearly marked NO EXIT.

  He felt positively sick.

  Ellery shuffled toward Upper Whistling, hands trembling in his pockets.

  At the entrance to the Northern State Telephone Building he made an attempt to compose himself; the effort took him several moments.

  Then he went in and asked to see the manager.

  What story he told that functionary he was unable to remember clearly afterward; but it was not the true story, and it got him what he was after: the Wrightsville telephone directories for the years 1916 and 1917.

  It took him exactly twenty-five seconds to ascertain that no one named Southbridge was listed in the telephone book for 1916.

  It took him twenty seconds more to discover that no one named Southbridge was listed in the telephone book for 1917.

  There was a hunted look in his eye as he called for the directories for 1914, 1915, 1918, 1919, and 1920.

  No Southbridge was listed in any of them, physician or otherwise.

  He felt positively not well as he reached for his hat.

  He avoided the Square. Instead, he walked down Upper Whistling past Jezreel Lane, past Lower Main, to Slocum. He turned into Slocum and hurried the one long block to Washington.

  Logan’s Market was alive with flies, and little else. The intersection of Slocum and Washington was deserted. Gratefully, he crossed Washington and darted into the Professional Building. He had glimpsed Andy Birobatyan’s one arm and fine Armenian face in the Wrightsville Florist Shop next door and he was altogether disinclined toward flowers and Armenia on this occasion.

  He plodded up the wide wooden stairs of the Professional Building, irritated by the noise his own feet made on the aged boards.

  At the head of the stairs he turned to the right, and there was the familiar shingle:

  MILO WILLOUGHBY, M.D.

  He tried out a smile, breathed, and went in.

  The door to Dr. Willoughby’s examining room was shut.

  A farmer with a yellow face and pain-filled eyes was sitting in a chair.

  A pregnant young lady was sitting in another, dreamy-eyed.

  Ellery sat down and waited, too. Same ugly green overstuffed furniture, same faded Currier & Ives prints on the walls, same old fan clattering overhead.

  The examining room door opened and another pregnant lady, not so young as the lady who was waiting, waddled out, beaming. And there was old Dr. Willoughby, again. Really old. Dried out. Shrunken.